


Burning Bridges

by INMH



Series: The Fruits of Mercy [7]
Category: The Order: 1886
Genre: Angst, Burns, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, Drama, F/M, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Romance, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-21 08:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11940012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: Fruits of Mercy series. Isabeau and Grayson finally find themselves on opposite sides.





	Burning Bridges

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry, I made a sad.

**[-The 29 th of July, 1887-]**  
   
It was bound to happen sooner or later.  
  
Grayson was not a man who would have left London, not for long, anyway, and the Rebellion was as tenacious as a band of feral rats that hadn’t eaten in weeks. It was natural that eventually, driven by their mad, anarchic purpose, that they would resurface once more.  
  
And when they did, Isabeau was ready.  
  
The last light of the day was disappearing when the call came in:  
  
“ _Rebels in Mayfair!_ ”  
  
Isabeau was the first to jump up, the first to reach for her gun, the first to look towards the Lord Chancellor for permission.  
_  
Let me_ , Isabeau pleaded silently. _Let me be the one to do it. I can do it._  
  
The Chancellor, her father, looked to her with stern eyes tinged with hesitation. It was not lost on Isabeau that she was now his only child, and that if she were to perish in the field, the former Sir Lancelot would outlive both of his children. She did not wish such grief on her father.  
  
But he was not simply her father- he was the Lord Chancellor and she was his Knight, and that meant that he must decide with his mind when it came to deploying Knights for battle, not his heart.  
  
“Lady Igraine, Sir Perceval, you will go to Mayfair. Lady Elaine, and Sir Gawain, you will go to the surrounding area and-”  
  
Isabeau didn’t hear the rest. She was already out the door, double-checking that her weapon was loaded and ready. Gal- _Grayson_ had beaten that into her head during her training, to never, ever assume that one’s weapon was loaded and ready for a fight. Once or twice he’d deliberately sabotaged her weapons before target-practice and snickered as she tried to fire a weapon that had no bullets in it.  
  
“Next time you’ll check, won’t you Isi?” Grayson had suggested lightly as Isabeau stomped over to him to retrieve her bullets.  
  
“Next time I might shoot you,” Isabeau had threatened.  
  
There was a time when Isabeau might have looked on those memories with utter fondness.  
  
Now she looked upon them with fury and disgust.  
  
“Perceval,” She called, and Lafayette appeared at her side. He didn’t look especially thrilled to be heading to Mayfair, and was fiddling with his pistol.  
  
“Igraine,” He responded with only a fraction of his usual enthusiasm. The Marquis was a man of great emotion and sentimentality, which was all well and good when they were off the clock, and entirely unwelcome when they were.  
  
“Lafayette,” Isabeau snapped, “We may encounter Grayson today, and you had best remember that he’s a traitor and an embarrassment to the Order. We owe him no loyalty or sympathy- certainly not mercy.”  
  
She’d rehearsed those words, or at least the conviction behind them, more times that she could count, and they sounded true enough.  
  
Lafayette nodded, managed a crooked, forced, grim smile. “Of course, Lady Igraine. I will behave accordingly.”  
  
Isabeau stared him down, scrutinizing him for signs of reluctance, hesitation. She needn’t have bothered looking so closely: It was all over his face.  
  
“I should hope so.”  
   
[---]  
   
Booms and bangs and screams of fleeing citizens greeted them in Mayfair.  
  
From somewhere amidst the smoke and fleeing people, a constable nearly ran headfirst into Lafayette, who swore in French at the surprise. “Knights! Knights- Lady Igraine! Sir- Sir- Perceval! Sir Perceval!” The authorities and related personnel still stumbled when trying to recall the Marquis’s new title. “The Commissioner is up ahead, he wants to see you, he has a- the gun with the fire!” The frustrated officer offered, too frantic to recall the proper name for the gun.  
  
“Thermite rifle,” Isabeau supplied. “That should make things easier.”  
  
“Indeed,” Lafayette remarked without any particular emotion, though he did seem noticeably paler than he had earlier; and he had been decently pale before. Isabeau was tempted to chastise him again, remind him of his duty to the Order, but also knew that she could reprimand him for being nervous about facing off with Grayson until she was blue in the face, but there was nothing she could say or do to change what he felt.  
  
She’d barely had any luck with her own emotions in that regard. She couldn’t very well force the Marquis to stop feeling conflicted about fighting their old friend.  
  
It was one building in particular that the Rebels had targeted. It didn’t look like a residential building- something business-related perhaps, but at the moment Isabeau was less concerned with the how and why as she was with the where and who. The Commissioner met them at the perimeter established near the building. “Lady Igraine, Sir Perceval! Good to see you, circumstances aside. Now, most of the Rebels have infiltrated the building- I suspect they’re sacking the place, but it’s hard to tell given that they’ve cut down nearly all the men that I’ve sent towards the building.”  
  
“And the others?” Lafayette asked.  
  
“They’re outside, defending the place from various strategic positions.” The Commissioner led them over to the crates where the thermite rifles were stored, and Isabeau holstered her gun to pick one up. Everything seemed in order: Properly cleaned and loaded, safety off, same model she was accustomed to so the buttons and levers were in all the right places.  
  
Isabeau went to hand one to Lafayette, but he stepped back. “ _Non, merci._ I hate those things; too unwieldy. I’ll be fine with my rifle.”  
  
“Whatever you like,” Isabeau said with a shrug. “But you’ll be doing it the slow way, Marquis.”  
  
“I prefer slow and deliberate targeting to quick and difficult to control mass destruction,” Was the Marquis’s sleek response.  
  
Were Isabeau inclined to dedicate time and energy to deciphering Lafayette’s tone and words, she might have caught something there that he’d hoped she would hear; but she didn’t, and she turned her back on the Marquis and ran towards the sounds of gunfire and shouting.  
  
She could see the silhouettes of the Rebels in the shadow of the building. There weren’t too many, maybe seven or eight, but there were wounded Company Men and officers lying around- more of the former than the latter, Isabeau noticed. One officer swore as a bullet ricocheted off the wall he was crouching behind. “ _Jaysus!_ That nearly took off my damn head!”  
  
Another shot- another officer narrowly avoided being shot, and he gasped with alarm, clutching his chest. The next shot found its mark in a Company Man who’d poked his head up to find a target, and he crumpled to the ground.  
  
“ _We’ve got it!_ ” A dim, distanced voice came from beyond the Rebels’ blockade. “ _We’ve got it!_ _Go!_ ”  
  
“ _Everyone move out!_ ”  
  
It felt as though someone had sent a shot of ice-water down Isabeau’s spine.  
 _  
That’s Gray’s voice._  
  
So many years, so many decades of knowing Grayson gave Isabeau a reflexive reaction to hearing his voice: It was that little shock of joy, the pleasant realization that Grayson, a man she had so many different feelings for, was nearby, she should go talk to him, see if she could-  
  
But no.  
  
That was the old reaction.  
  
The new one overtook the old in matter of seconds, the instinctive reaction of happiness being forced down by anger and grief.  
 _  
Traitor._  
 _  
Grayson is a traitor._  
  
But that didn’t make it any easier when Isabeau risked a peek around the corner of the wall and saw what was unmistakably Grayson waving the Rebels out one by one, motioning for them to leave while he and a few concealed shooters held back the police. It was, for all the world, as though this were a usual day of Knight activity for him- but now he was on the wrong side.  
  
“Stay back,” Isabeau snapped at the officers. “I’ll handle this.” She stepped out from behind the wall with less caution and planning than was wise, raised the gun, and bellowed, “ _GRAYSON!_ ”  
  
Grayson turned away from whoever he’d been sending off, and froze when their eyes met. “No, no!” He hissed at one of the gunmen who were hunched off to the side, where Isabeau couldn’t see. “Don’t shoot! Let me handle this!”  
  
“Bad idea,” Isabeau snapped. “Grayson’s not especially trustworthy when it comes to his allies, I hope you lot have figured that out already!” The words stung as they left her mouth, and in a way she regretted them; a remnant of the days when it would have been completely unacceptable to be so harsh with Grayson, as a mentor, a senior Knight, or a friend.  
  
“Isi!” Grayson’s voice was pleading, desperate.  
  
“ _Don’t!_ ” Isabeau barked, furious to hear her voice crack. “ _Never_ call me that again! I’m not your _Isi_ anymore!” She hefted the thermite rifle threateningly and pointed it in Grayson’s direction- but she did not fire. “You had better bloody turn yourself in, Grayson, because if you don’t, you’re dead. I have no pity for traitors, and less for men who _kill my brother!_ ”  
  
“Isabeau, I didn’t-!”  
  
“What?” Isabeau cut him off, fixing him with a disgusted look. “What? You didn’t do it? You were framed? You didn’t kill Alastair? Is _that_ what you’re about to tell me?”  
 _  
Please!_ Isabeau’s heart screamed, agonized. _Please, please, please! **Please** tell me you didn’t kill Alastair! Tell me anything! Tell me he committed suicide, tell me he’s alive but missing, tell me he’s gone mad and joined a nudist colony, tell me anything, but please tell me you didn’t kill my brother!_  
 _  
Please, Grayson- **God,** please tell me you didn’t do it!_  
  
“Did you, Grayson?” Isabeau’s voice cracked again. “Did you do it? Did you kill Alastair?”  
  
She needed something.  
  
Anything.  
  
A simple tale, a protest in his defense, an explanation for why Alastair was nowhere to be found.  
  
If Grayson could give her this _one thing_ , then Isabeau could permit herself to hope. She could permit doubt to slip in the cracks of her frozen heart. She could permit herself to forgive every other sin Grayson had committed by allying himself with the Rebellion, by being in the company of that _woman_ \- she could forgive anything short of murdering her brother. She could find a way to believe him, if only he would just give her an explanation!  
 _  
Please!_  
  
Grayson stared at Isabeau for a long moment. And at first, it looked as though he were about to give her that protestation, that declaration of innocence, that he had been framed for Alastair’s murder- that familiar fire was in his eyes, the kind he’d had the day of Sebastien’s funeral and he’d roared that the Chancellor was besmirching Sebastien’s memory by speaking so poorly of him. It was the fire that made Grayson who he was, the normally smoldering embers stoking to life when he was sufficiently riled.  
  
For that moment, Isabeau had hope.  
  
And then she watched as the fire died.  
  
Grayson’s expression changed from one of pleading frustration and desperation to something passive and dim. The fire was extinguishing before her eyes, and the final expression to cross Grayson’s face was one of grim, mournful resignation.  
  
Isabeau saw his face and knew, a second before he spoke, what he was about to say.  
  
“Yes,” Grayson said finally. “Yes, Isabeau, I killed Alastair. I’m sorry.”  
  
Isabeau’s mind went blank.  
  
She was so overwhelmed by that one, simple fact that was compounded upon by a thousand others below the surface:  
 _  
Grayson killed Alastair_  
 _  
(Alastair was my big brother, I loved him)_  
 _  
Grayson killed Alastair_  
 _  
(I loved Grayson)_  
 _  
Grayson killed Alastair_  
 _  
(I trusted Grayson)_  
 _  
Grayson killed Alastair_  
 _  
( **I trusted Grayson** )_  
 _  
Grayson killed Alastair_  
 _  
( **I TRUSTED GRAYSON** )_  
  
Isabeau let out a sound that was more animal than woman, and the next thing she knew, she was firing the thermite. Grayson disappeared behind a flash of white, and then fire overtook everything else.  
  
Looking back on it later, Isabeau would vaguely recall seeing a figure roughly Grayson’s height covered in fire, stumbling away in retreat. But in the moment, she felt nothing but rage and an unbelievable sense of betrayal and _hurt_.  
  
“Lady Igraine!” One of the officers ran up to her, panting. “There are more Rebels to the east trying to flee. We need help tracking them down!”  
  
Isabeau looked to where Grayson had been standing, the flames and cinders of the thermite obscuring almost everything. She wasn’t certain that she had killed Grayson, but she could be reasonably assured that she had hurt him badly enough that he was regretting what he’d done.  
  
“I’ll be right there,” Isabeau said hollowly.  
 _  
He deserved it,_ she thought, trying to force the words into her heart and make them her truth. _He deserved what he got._  
  
Now if only she could believe it.  
   
[- **The 30 th of July, 1887**-]  
   
Grayson lay on the bed, skin itching and stinging badly as the burns healed.  
  
Lakshmi had ushered Devi from the room a few minutes ago, insisting that Grayson needed rest. But he knew that once the injuries had had a chance to heal that he would be forced to tell her why he hadn’t simply told Isabeau that Alastair was still alive.  
  
The answer he meant to give her, at least, was simple enough:  
 _  
She wouldn’t believe me._  
  
It wasn’t the only answer, of course, and Lakshmi would probably know that; after all, there was a significant difference between letting Isabeau believe that he’d killed her brother, and actually _lying_ and telling her he’d done it. He’d just reinforced the belief she already held rather than letting it lie.  
  
But in all honesty, Grayson wasn’t completely sure why he’d said it.  
  
He had blurted out the words in the heat of the moment, and in this moment, he realized how cruel they were for Isabeau to hear: That the man who had mentored her, whom she’d harbored romantic feelings for, had murdered her brother for (as far as she knew) no good reason at all. It would have been better to keep silent rather than fan the flames (literally).  
  
But Lakshmi, ever the sharp one, would press and ask him why he didn’t simply tell Isabeau that her brother was alive and with the Lycans? After all, that was the truth, and one that might very well plant a seed of doubt in her mind. He wouldn’t even have to have said that Alastair _was_ a Lycan; he merely would have had to say that he was _with_ them and let Isabeau draw what conclusions she liked.  
 _  
Why not say that,_ Lakshmi would ask. _Why not tell her the truth about her brother, the true traitor to your Order?_  
 _  
Why not tell her, Grayson?_  
  
And Grayson would not answer her, because neither of the answers would be what she wanted to hear.  
 _  
I can’t do that to Isabeau. I can’t destroy her world by telling her that her brother betrayed us, that he’s a Lycan. A Lycan nearly killed her once, left her throat and collar irreparably scarred. How can I tell her that her brother is of the same species as the one that did that?_  
  
The second answer was even harder, and worst to admit:  
 _  
I can’t do it to Alastair either. I can’t. He’s so bloody terrified of his family and friends’ reactions to being told that he’s a Lycan. Isabeau’s despair will destroy him._  
  
Lakshmi would argue that he deserved it, that he made his own bed with his actions and would have to lie in it.  
  
And perhaps he did.  
  
But Grayson still couldn’t bring himself to do it.  
 _  
Because I-_  
  
“Gray,” Someone whispered.  
  
Grayson opened his eyes, and found a pair of bright blue ones staring back at him.  
  
Alastair was kneeling next to the bed, brow furrowed. “Good Lord, Grayson, what happened to you?”  
  
“Thermite,” Grayson mumbled. Then he shut his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to see Alastair’s face when he asked the inevitable question.  
  
There was a pause as the younger man puzzled over it. Then he asked, “Who?”  
  
Grayson didn’t respond, and that was answer enough. When he opened his eyes again, Alastair looked completely and utterly miserable. “I’m sorry.” His hand slid up to cover Grayson’s (relatively) undamaged one. “God, Grayson, I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Why’re you here?” Grayson murmured.  
  
“We heard about the fuck-a-row in Mayfair and I-” Alastair stopped short, bit his lip, looked towards the door, and then sighed. “I’d heard some things, and I thought maybe you’d been hurt, so I decided to make sure you were alright.”  
  
“Thas’ sweet of you.” Grayson meant for it to be more sarcastic than it came out. Right now, a friendly face was more than welcome, even if said face was a big part in why he’d nearly been burned to death.  
  
Fortunately, Alastair didn’t seem interested in making this situation any more awkwardly sentimental than it needed to be. Instead, he wanted to make it more painful: “I can’t believe Isabeau would… Not to _you_. She just lit up the thermite and went at you?”  
  
Grayson hesitated for a tick too long. “Mm.”  
  
Alastair’s eyes bored into his, and so Grayson shut them. “Grayson, am I missing something here?”  
  
“Nothing.” Because he wasn’t: Isabeau went at Grayson the way she did because of Grayson, not because of Alastair, and therefore it didn’t relate to him at all. He didn’t need to know what exactly it was that had set Isabeau off and go into some spiral of misery about his responsibility for the situation. Grayson knew Alastair was sorry and, to some extent, guilty for what he’d put Grayson through (Alastair got chatty and morose after a few drinks); and since Grayson had resolved to let sleeping dogs lie, he didn’t want to reignite that guilt by implying that he held Alastair responsible for what had happened with Isabeau. “ _Nothing,_ Alastair.”  
  
Alastair didn’t look convinced. “Somehow I doubt that.”  
  
Grayson sighed heavily, wearily; he had neither the energy nor the will to argue with Alastair right now. He shut his eyes once more and settled in against the pillow, a signal that he was ready to sleep, not to fight, and Alastair sighed.  
  
“Fine. I can leave it be for now.”  
  
He turned and settled so that he was leaning back against the bed, back to Grayson. The older Knight was tempted to ask why he was sticking around, but he lacked the energy and desire to probe too deeply into Alastair’s reasoning. The man had a mind that worked in strange and cunning ways, and Grayson was sure that he had made all the necessary justifications to himself for why sitting by Grayson’s bedside in a Rebel stronghold was a good decision.  
  
“Go to sleep, Grayson,” Alastair remarked quietly. “I’ll hide in the wardrobe if I hear anyone coming.”  
  
Grayson began to do just that, unconsciousness finally starting to take over. He realized, deliriously, that he could smell Alastair: Since the younger man had been living with the Lycans, a smell of burning wood and charcoal clung to him, and Grayson had noticed it the night they’d gone to bed together (or rather, when they’d woken up). It might have- perhaps ought to have- bothered him under different circumstances, but in this moment, the unintentional reminder that someone safe was nearby did wonders for relaxing him enough to sleep.  
 _  
When did Alastair become **safe?**_ Grayson wondered.  
  
…Oh, who _fucking_ cared?  
  
Grayson focused on the back of Alastair’s head, allowing himself to be calm for the first time all day, and passed out.  
   
-End  
 


End file.
